There is a long, self-pitying post that has been rattling around in my head for weeks now. I suspect it has been a significant part of the writer's block I've been suffering for several weeks now.
Today was one of those days when several things came together in such a way as to tell me it is time to write this. I had a plan of how I would present this, all the background and context I would give. But the more intricate a plan I create in my head, the further away the heart of the matter recedes. So I'm just going to dive in. I don't know exactly where I'm going with this and am not sure how long it will take to get there, so feel free to move on to the next post in your queue.
It is supposed to be some sort of comfort, apparently, to tell a woman who has miscarried that there was probably a chromosomal abnormality in the fetus. Therefore, it was for the best. Which, for me personally, felt like the science version of "It's all part of God's plan."
I also, as much as I might have wanted to believe the above, never fully believed it. Again I feel the need to emphasize that I approach most aspects of my life through logic and science. But I do reserve a special place for dreams, particularly during pregnancy. Not as a form of prophecy, but more as an opportunity to get in touch with my subconscious and body and to figure out what exactly is going on in there. And so it meant something to me when I had a dream in which I held my little girl. I believed so much more strongly in that little girl than a potential chromosomal abnormality.
The second miscarriage happened so quickly that I had not quite settled into the idea of being pregnant. But that very fact, the decreasing amount of time my body could hold onto the baby, just convinced me that there was something outside of the random, inexplicable chance event my medical providers tried to assure me was the cause.
It was a moment of confirmation, therefore, when I began to unravel some of what might have happened. I was elated to know that my suspicions were probably correct and that there was someone who was not going to make me go through the process again without any additional support.
But there's a dark side to this new knowledge. And this is what has been eating at me.
There was nothing wrong with my little girl. Or the second baby I never got to know. Either one would have been a beautiful, healthy baby. With me now.
It was not the babies' chromosomes that failed. It was my body. More specifically, my body attacked my babies, treated them as cancerous growths, worked to flush them out as quickly as possible.
My body killed my little girl.
And this is the origin of my recent discontent with my body, the sense that the physical me and the mental me are not in harmony. Because if I had not created that separation, I would have to replace "my body" with "I."
I can write all of this now, because I have started to heal that rift. I recently increased the frequency, length, and intensity of my workouts, spending more time simply existing in my body.
I'm headed to a fertility clinic soon and hope to be trying again in another 6 weeks. Even though I have been displeased with how many times my start date has been pushed back, I am starting to think that this may be a good thing for my mental state; perhaps I will be more at peace with my body by the time I ask it to undertake this task again.
I do not regret the knowledge I have collected in the past few months, even with the twist of pain it has brought. I also recognize the shimmer of stress that attends all my considerations of future pregnancy, restraining my excitement, not allowing me to think beyond the step immediately ahead of me. It constantly whispers, "But what if there's a third time? How will you recover?" And the truth is, I might not; I fear that a third miscarriage would break me.
I am not, perhaps, quite as pessimistic as this might all sound. There is enough hope that I will press on. But it is always with a glance backward, aware of the weight I am bearing.